I'M SITTING IN MY OFFICE STUDYING FOR the bar exam because 1 have nothing else to do. I realize I'm not supposed to be doing anything else because I'm not a lawyer yet, and won't be until I pass the bar exam.
It's difficult to concentrate. Why am I falling in love with a married woman just days before the exam? My mind should be as sharp as possible, free of clutter and distractions, finely tuned and focused on one goal.
She's a loser, I've convinced myself. She's a broken girl with scars, many of which could be permanent. And he's dangerous. The idea of another man touching his cute little cheerleader would surely set him off.
I ponder these things with my feet on my desk, hands clasped behind my head, gazing dreamily into a fog, when the door suddenly bursts open and Bruiser charges through. "What are you doing?" he barks.
"Studying," I answer, jerking myself into position.
"Thought you were going to study in the afternoons." It's ten-thirty now. He's pacing in front of my desk.
"Look, Bruiser, today is Friday. The exam starts next Wednesday. I'm scared."
"Then go study at the hospital. And pick up a case. I haven't seen a new one in three days."
"It's hard to study and hustle at the same time."
"Deck does it."
"Yeah, Deck the eternal scholar."
"Just got a call from Leo F. Drummond. Ring a bell?"
"No. Should it?"
"He's a senior partner at Tinley Britt. Marvelous trial lawyer, all sorts of commercial litigation. Rarely loses. Really fine lawyer, big firm."
"I know all about Trent & Brent."
"Well, you're about to know them even better. They represent Great Benefit. Drummond is lead counsel."
I would guess that there are at least a hundred firms in this city that represent insurance companies. And there must be a thousand insurance companies. What are the odds of the company I hate the most, Great Benefit, retaining the firm I curse every day of my life, Trent & Brent?
Oddly, I take it well. I'm not really surprised.
I suddenly realize why Bruiser is pacing and talking so fast. He's worried. Because of me, he's filed a ten-million-dollar lawsuit against a big company that's represented by a lawyer who intimidates him. This is amusing. I never dreamed Bruiser Stone was afraid of anything.
"What did he say?"
"Hello. Just checking in. He tells me the case has been assigned to Harvey Hale, who, son of a gun, was his roommate at Yale thirty years ago when they studied law together, and who, by the way, if you don't know, was a superb insurance defense lawyer before his heart attack and before his doctor told him to change careers. Got himself elected to the bench, where he can't shake the
defense notion that a just and fair verdict is one under ten thousand dollars."
"Sorry I asked."
"So we have Leo F. Drummond and his considerable staff, and they have their favorite judge. You got your work cut out for you."
"Me? What about you?"
"Oh, I'll be around. But this is your baby. They'll drown you with paperwork." He walks to the door. "Remember, they get paid by the hour. The more paper they produce, the more hours they bill." He laughs at me and slams the door, seemingly happy that I'm about to be roughed up by the big boys.
I've been abandoned. There are over a hundred lawyers at Trent & Brent, and I suddenly feel very lonely.
DECK AND I eat a bowl of soup at Trudy's. Her small lunch crowd is strictly blue collar. The place smells of grease, sweat and fried meats. It's Deck's favorite lunch spot because he's picked up a few cases here, mostly on-the-job injuries. One settled for thirty thousand. He took a third of twenty-five percent, or twenty-five hundred dollars.
There are a few bars in the area he also frequents, he confesses, low over the soup. He'll take off his tie, try to look like one of the boys, and drink a soda. He listens to the workers as they lubricate themselves after work. He might tell me where the good bars are, the good grazing spots, as he likes to call them. Deck's full of advice for chasing cases and finding clients.
And, yes, he's even gone to the skin clubs occasionally, but only to be with his clientele. You just have to circulate, he says more than once. He likes the casinos down in Mississippi, and is of the farsighted opinion that they are undesirable places because poor people go there and
gamble with grocery money. But there could be opportunity. Crime will rise. Divorces and bankruptcies are bound to increase as more people gamble. Folks will need lawyers. There's a lot of potential suffering out there, and he's wise to it. He's on to something. He'll keep me posted.
I EAT ANOTHER FINE MEAL at St. Peter's, in the Gauze Grill, as this place is known. I overheard a group of interns call it that. Pasta salad from a plastic bowl. I study sporadically, and watch the clock.
At ten, the elderly gentleman in the pink jacket arrives, but he is alone. He pauses, looks around, sees me and walks over, stern-faced and obviously not happy doing whatever he's doing.
"Are you Mr. Baylor?" he asks properly. He's holding an envelope, and when I nod affirmatively, he places it on the table. "It's from Mrs. Riker," he says, bending just slightly at the waist, then walks away.
The envelope is letter-sized, plain and white. I open it and remove a blank get-well card. It reads:
Dear Rudy:
My doctor released me this morning, so I'm home now. Thanks for everything. Say a prayer for us. You are wonderful.
She signed her name, then added a postscript: "Please don't call or write, or try to see me. It will only cause trouble. Thanks again."
She knew I'd be here waiting faithfully. With all the lust-filled thoughts swirling through my brain during the past twenty-four hours, it never occurred to me that she might be leaving. I was certain we'd meet tonight.
I walk aimlessly along the endless corridors, trying to
collect myself. I am determined to see her again. She needs me, because there's no one else to help her.
At a pay phone, I find a listing for Cliff Riker and punch the numbers. A recorded message informs me that the line has been disconnected.